


one season following another

by LucilleBarker



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25703518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucilleBarker/pseuds/LucilleBarker
Summary: Every Christmas, Jimmy McGill carries on a tradition.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	one season following another

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: 
> 
> So, here’s the thing—I am beginning to suspect that Breaking Bad doesn’t start in September 2008. So I’m making a judgment call and saying BB starts in *2007* and Walt dies in 2009. I could be wrong, but that’s the explanation for this timeline.

**December 24th, 2014**

Gene Takovic once again spends this Christmas alone. 

He did buy some small treats for the girls at Cinnabon—nothing fancy. Just a few Starbucks gift cards, candy canes, and some gingerbread cookies from a nearby bakery. But there’s no one to go home to. No one to call. No one that he could call.

Tonight, he has added whiskey to a cup of coffee, a splash of a generic Irish cream liqueur. It’s an indulgence, one that his slowing metabolism can only handle a few times a year. It helps that he has no interest in sweets nowadays, the smell of sugar and cinnamon follows him home, buried inside of his skin since his first day behind the counter. He doesn’t worry about the caffeine. His sleep is already shit, why pretend he’s going to try for it?

The ceramic cup that burns into his hand is something that he found in the clearance section of a thrift store. A faded image of the shark from _Jaws_ is a bite away from a woman swimming in the ocean. Bruce? Was that his name? That’s what Kim told him.

Gene reclines back in his chair, pressing the rubber button on the DVD remote, the triangle and two parallel lines wearing away under his thumb. The screen goes black. A tune begins to play...

_“A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no?”_

On the television screen, in high definition, Tevye stares Gene in the eye and gives him a smile buried beneath a bushy grey beard. The aforementioned fiddler stands above him, working his bow across the strings and turning creaks and squeaks into beautiful music.

 _“But here, in our little village of Anatevka,”_ he explains, _“you might say every one of us is a fiddler on the roof trying to scratch out a pleasant, simple tune without breaking his neck.”_

Gene wonders what his simple tune is. Kneading lumps of dough, scared someone will recognize him? Talking a mile a minute, on his knees in the middle of New Mexico with a gun to his head? Does he even remember how any of those songs go?

* * *

**December 24th, 2008**

Saul Goodman is drunk.

Or Jimmy McGill is drunk.

Someone somewhere is drunk.

Saul looks out the window, the trees now devoid of leaves. No snow. Just overgrown twigs that are sensitive to 60 degrees Fahrenheit. He can hear crunch of snow beneath his feet in Cicero, slick patches of ice that would send him into the air and into the sweet embrace of an easy cash payout. Aches and bruises would fade, but was the physical toll worth it?

He drinks from his glass, ice clinking and hitting his lips. The tequila has been watered down, but he will take what he can get. He always does.

A few months prior, reporters covered the mysterious deaths of ten inmates connected to Gus Fring. Saul’s breath left his body when reporters stared down the barrel of the lens, saying that the identities of the victims have not been released. He thinks about Daniel Wachsburger, who was willing to snitch on Mike. He thinks about Mike Ehrmantraut, who would have snipered Walter White in the head despite being on the run.

 _“We’re done when I say we’re done.”_ Saul’s grabs the counter with one hand, dizzy from a mixture of the alcohol and the memory of a psychopath cornering him. Trapping him. Walter White was supposed to be a joke. Walter White was supposed to be someone he could keep at a distance and keep under control. Instead, the great Heisenberg brought in chaos and broke down every barrier and shield he had.

Is it worth it?

_”Oh dear Lord... you made many, many poor people. I realize, of course, it’s no shame to be poor. But it’s no great honor, either. So what would have been so terrible if I had a small fortune?”_

The movie plays in the background. He hasn’t been actively watching—Saul Goodman doesn’t really give a shit about Yente the Matchmaker. The daughters should be realistic about their prospects. But Tevye’s big number? 

“ _If I were a rich man_  
 _Yibbe-dibbe dibbe_  
 _All day long I’d bidde bidde bum_  
 _If I were a wealthy man..._ ”

Saul observes as the old man dances up in the rafters, dust raining down with every stomp and shake. Saul purses his lips and holds his arms out and experimentally shimmies his shoulders. The tequila in his stomach sloshes, but he can’t help himself. He does it again. And again. Soon he’s shaking his torso and stomping his feet on the floor. His movements are exaggerated and furious, his feet hitting the floor in rhythm, _boom! boom! boom!_ He pours another shot of tequila into his glass, taking a sip before moves again, the liquid crashing in small waves against the glass and leaving droplets on the floor. The chill from the ice burns the tips of his fingers.

On the outside, Saul is dancing. From inside his cage, Jimmy is screaming.

* * *

**December 25th, 2002**

“ _Fiddler on the Roof_?”

Kim examines the spine of the DVD cover, the Blockbuster logo looming large on the front cover. Jimmy is sorting through white boxes filled with orange chicken, lo mein, and egg rolls. He wipes his hands on a dish towel, mindful of avoiding any sauce getting on his clothes. Never mind that he and Kim have been in their pajamas all day. Jimmy McGill knows the value of his clothes, even a white undershirt that was one of a $15 three-pack.

Last week, Jimmy insisted that she take a day off. Ever the negotiator, Kim promised to stay away from her work only if there was a movie marathon. And so Jimmy came home on Christmas Eve with plenty of movies to keep them entertained. It’s something to take their minds off their practices. That and the looming threat of disbarment hanging over his head.

“Yep,” he confirms. “It’s a Christmas tradition.”

Kim chuckles. “For who?”

“Mom and I saw it in the theatre, but we had the cast album before that. It’s been around for as long as I can remember. Maybe longer.”

“Irish Catholics watching a Jewish musical. I did not see that coming as a McGill family activity.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I also got Scrooged and Die Hard if you’re looking for something a little more on theme.”

Kim sits back on the couch, and reads the back of the cover again. “You know, I’ve seen bits and pieces, but I don’t think I’ve ever watched it all the way through.”

Jimmy McGill holds his hands up, commanding time to stop at this very moment. “Hold on. What did you say?”

“There are thousands of movies in the world, Jimmy. Some were bound to fall through the cracks.”

“But _Fiddler on the Roof!_ ”

Kim lifts an eyebrow. “I’m still not clear on this: How have _you_ seen _Fiddler on the Roof_?”

“How have you seen _Jaws 3-D_ and not _Fiddler on the Roof_?”

“It is three hours long,” Kim groans.

“So is _The Godfather_ , and _The Godfather_ doesn’t have a built-in intermission. Hey! There’s snow in it. You love snow movies.”

Kim closes her eyes and shakes her head before surrendering the DVD case. _You win_. Jimmy grins and snatches the plastic box from her hand.

She laughs as he sings along to “Matchmaker, Matchmaker,” off-pitch falsetto and dramatics. He presses his nose into her cheek as he sings, then his words are muffled as he presses his lips to her skin and continues warbling on. The sound vibrates against her, tickling her and she’s racked so hard with laughter that she can’t catch her breath. _“Find me no find, catch me no catch! Unless he’s a matchless maaaaaatch!”_

“Get off of me!” Kim cackles, pushing him away from her. Jimmy’s throat burns from the effort, cheeks pinching from his grin. Her face is flushed, her eyes crystal blue as she wipes away tears from laughing too hard. She’s gorgeous.

* * *

**December 25th, 1993**

“I hate this thing.”

“You just hit play, Mom.”

Ruth McGill stands by her brand new VCR, nose buried in a manual that she has been swearing at for the last hour. Jimmy tries to move around her, show her how simple the machine can be. Her face is almost as red as the cardinals printed on her dress.

“It says I need to program it? What does that mean? It doesn’t make any goddamn sense!”

“Mom, watch.” Jimmy maneuvers around her, and inserts a VHS tape he had hidden behind his back. The tape slowly goes in with a _whirr_ and Jimmy holds up one finger and hits the button marked with a triangle and two paralell lines. Grainy white letters blink on the screen over blue: PLAY. And then the video begins to roll. “There you go,” Jimmy says.

Ruth holds out her arms, the manual on the cusp of slipping out of her hands. “How am I supposed to work this thing when you’re not here?”

“Mom, if you don’t like it, we can take it back,” Chuck replies.

“You spent so much money on this thing,” Ruth bemoans.

“Chuck and Jimmy did,” Rebecca said, pouring red wine into two glasses. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite child, Rebecca.”

Rebecca picks up each glass and passes by her husband and brother-in-law, offering a glass to Ruth. The ladies _clink_ their glasses together, a united front against the McGill boys. They take their seats in their respective spots—Chuck sits at the kitchenette table working through paperwork as Rebecca and Ruth sit next to each other. Jimmy sits in a green and orange plaid chair, memories of his dad sitting in the same spot.

“Boys, just take me to the movies where they pay the projectionist.”

“But Mom,” Jimmy interjects, “the VCR will let you play this from the comfort of your own home.”

A familiar tune plays...

_“A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no?”_

Ruth’s mouth hangs agape. “Oh my god!”

Chuck doesn’t look up from his work, but his response is sincere and warm. “Glad you like it, Mom.”

“Jimmy, remember when we saw this in the movie theatre? I wish I could have seen it on stage. Topol actually toured with the production back in 1990, and it passed through Chicago. Ah! I would’ve loved that. This is possibly one of my favorite musicals.”

Jimmy smiles, but grimaces at the slight discomfort of it. The cold of Cicero and the heat of Albuquerque chap his lips easily. He gnaws on his bottom lip. He can feel a small, jagged piece of skin against his tongue.

“James Morgan McGill, don’t bite your lip.”

“I’m not!”

* * *

**December 24th, 1971**

“Ugh.”

“What’s this ‘Ugh’ about?”

Jimmy sets his jaw and looks up at his mother. The winter chill of Cicero bites at his exposed skin, but he pulls down his homemade scarf so that his mom can get the full experience of his disdain. The middle-aged woman in the ticket booth turns her head away, but her eyebrows are raised high enough to touch her hairline. He can almost hear the thoughts buzzing under that puffed up nest of grey hair. _I’d never let my son speak that way to me._

“Can’t we see something else?” Jimmy groans. “Like _Dirty Harry_? Marco’s mom let _him_ see _Dirty Harry_!”

Ruth wrinkles her nose. Then she holds up the small wad of cash in her hand. 

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Money,” he deadpans.

“Who does it belong to?”

“You.”

“Exactly. My money buys the tickets, my money makes the choice. Like I was saying before, ma’am: two tickets for _Fiddler on the Roof_ , please. Thank you so much.”

Mother and son walk into their assigned theatre, mere minutes away from showtime. Jimmy scans the space and he can practically hear his own thoughts echo through the from. Of course the room showing a musical would be empty when Clint Eastwood is shooting bad guys in another one!

“Ah, it’s a Christmas miracle! A whole theatre to ourselves.”

“Their probably in the other theatre watching _Dirty Harry_.”

“I’m willing to bet that half of Cicero is getting ready for midnight mass. Jimmy, stop biting at your lip, please.”

Ah, the lone benefit of his father helping Chuck settle in out in Delaware. His older brother is starting work as a clerk out in Delaware, and Saint Charles McGill, Sr. had to help his oldest son. Ruth’s face is paler than usual, her short hair frizzing out from the stresses of running the store herself and losing sleep.

Ruth pulls on his hand, leading him to the middle seat of the middle row in the middle of the emptiest theatre. The lights dim, the screen goes dark, and after the roll of concession ads and previews, a tune plays.

The row bounces as Ruth dances in her seat.

“ _Who must know the way to make a proper home,_  
 _A quiet home, a kosher home?_  
 _Who must raise the family and run the home,_  
 _So Papa's free to read the holy book?_ ”

“The mama...”

Jimmy shoots a look at his mother, who is singing loudly. “Mom!”

“The mama!”

“Stop.”

“Tradition! _The mama...!_ ”

“You’re so embarrassing—”

“ _Tradition!_ ”

Jimmy slumps in his seat as his mother continues to make noise and sway. Despite the hard work of managing the story, he had never seen her happier. She put him to work that week—he couldn’t sneak peeks at any of the comic books or nudie mags. He swept as she took payments, checked inventory, and told customers how she’d “like to help, but unfortunately we can’t give you any money.” Ruth McGill is a natural businessperson—much better than she is at math. And when Jimmy’s dad comes home, she will be sitting in the back office keeping the books. Hidden away.

“You used to dance and sing to this record all the time,” Ruth whispers.

Jimmy does a double-take. “No, I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did! We had the Broadway record, and you would hop and jump and shout all over the house. You were about three-years-old. No, wait... you were four. So that makes it about eight years ago?”

“Seven.”

“Seven! Right.”

“Here’s to our prosperity!” _Clink_! Lazar Wolf and Tevye cheers with two small glasses of vodka. “Our good health and happiness!” _Clink_! More vodka. “And most important...

“ _To life, to life, l’chaim!  
L’chaim, l’chaim, to life!_”

“I love this song!” Ruth squeals.

“They’re all your favorite songs,” Jimmy retorts.

“I didn’t say it was my favorite. I love them all, yes, but they’re not all my favorites.”

He can’t stop her. Ruth jumps to her feet and begins to move down the aisle. She spins and glides through the row in front of him. He tries to move his head so that he can keep watching the movie, but she blocks his view. In the dark, she mouths to the music, stumbling where it is different from the version she knows best. She contorts her face and shimmies, and Jimmy decides he is not to be outdone. He gets up and races after her.

They dance in the dark as Tevye and Lazar Wolf celebrate and young Russian men join in. They dance as Motel sings about the “miracle of miracles” as he holds Tzeitel close. An usher walks in as Tevye lies to Golde about his prophetic dream, causing Ruth and Jimmy giggle and scurry back to their seats. After the usher leaves—“This is a warning”—Ruth counts to five before she jumps out of her seat again, and Jimmy chases her. Their joy melds with solemness as Tevye watches his oldest daughter marry her best friend. Jimmy’s mother wraps her arm around his shoulder, pulls him in to kiss the top of his head.

“This one,” she sighs. “This one is my favorite.”

* * *

**December 22th, 1964**

“ _Who’s got the pain when they do the mambo?  
Who’s got the pain when they go ‘Ugh!’  
Who needs a pill when they do the mambo?  
I don’t know who... do you_ _?_ ”

Ruth McGill picks her four-year-old son up off the ground, and he giggles and claws at her green sweater from the momentum of her spinning him around. She _cha-cha-cha’s_ to the rhythm, bouncing him up and down. He voices a long note, smiles as it modulates like it does when Willard drives over bumpy roads. “Uh-uh-uh-uh...”

“ _Who needs a pill when they do the mambo? Who needs a pill when they go—pbbbt!_ ”

Jimmy squeals as Ruth blows a raspberry into his cheek. The mother likes the sound so much that she does it again. His giggle is infectious, and the poor boy can’t decide between pushing her away with little fingers or trying to give her a raspberry kiss of his own. 

“Mom?”

“In here!” Ruth calls, groaning as gravity pulls Jimmy back to the floor. “You are getting heavy, baby boy. Who told you to grow up?”

“Daddy!”

“Daddy told you! Daddy’s fired!”

Her little boy doesn’t answer. There’s an older boy shuffling through the front door with a suitcase and a cloth bag deformed from rectangular cargo. His wool coat is too big for him, tufts of fine blonde hair puffing out beneath a knit cap. Jimmy races toward the taller boy, the suitcase falling to the floor as Jimmy collides with his legs. The cloth bag almost slips from his grip, too, but the older boy catches it just in time.

“Jimmy!” he gripes.

Jimmy ignores his tone. He just wraps his arms around his legs even tighter. “Chuck!”

Chuck wobbles and holds out his arms to catch his balance. Jimmy grins as Chuck’s hand touches the top of his head.

“Hiya, Jimmy,” he sighs.

Ruth taps the back of Jimmy’s neck, and the little boy wriggles away, rubs the tickles out of his skin. She uses the opportunity to sneak a hug from her oldest son.

“Merry Christmas, Chuck.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

“How was your trip?”

“Good. So... What are you listening to?”

“‘Who’s Got the Pain’ from _Damn Yankees_. It is the new favorite.” Off of Chuck’s tense smile, Ruth tilts her head. “You want me to turn it off?”

Chuck cringes, “The trip kind of took it out of me.”

“No, I’m not done!” Jimmy protests.

“Jimmy, we’ll turn it back on, later.”

Ruth moves to the record player, but Jimmy pushes against her legs. “No! I wanna listen to ‘Who’s Got the Mambo’!”

“Jimmy—”

Jimmy screams are blood-curdling. The front door’s creaks are muffled by a child’s banshee-like cry.

“Oof,” winces Willard. “Bad timing on my part, huh?”

“Will, can you turn off the record player please? Thanks. You two get yourselves settled, catch up, maybe get a snooze in. We might do the same.”

Ruth hefts her youngest son up and carries him off to his bedroom, shushing him and rubbing his back as he wails and sobs into the nook of her neck. 

The McGills have to have their Christmas celebration that evening—the family has a long drive ahead of them tomorrow. Jimmy hears his parents talk about how it might be Poppy Davenport’s “last Christmas.” He doesn’t understand why someone would stop celebrating Christmas. Either way, they’re driving to Wisconsin to see Grammy and Poppy Davenport, so they have to have their Christmas now and another Christmas later.

Wrapping paper covers the floor, and Willard McGill’s eyes are wide from the sight of the mess. Chuck is pulling on a sweater Ruth bought for him. Jimmy holds onto the arm of a bear, but he’s moping in his mother’s lap. He’s tired. He wants his song. Ruth holds her son, lets him wiggle and gripe as she tries to open a flat square package.

“Oh, Chuck!” Ruth holds up the album cover that reads _Zero Mostel in Fiddler on the Roof_.

“I have a professor that goes to New York often, and he had nothing but good things to say about that show.” Chuck sits up straight, a proud smile brightening his expression. “I know you like musicals and I thought maybe we could expand your library a bit.”

“That is just... thank you, sweetie.”

Chuck offers his hand out, and Ruth smiles. She places the record in his hand, and Chuck walks over to the record player. Jimmy falls back into her arms, limp and bored already.

“Can we play ‘Who’s Got the Mambo?’” he whines.

“We’re going to listen to this real quick. And then we can listen to ‘Who’s Got the Pain.’ Okay, baby boy?”

Jimmy moans, rolls over to press his pout into her upper arm. It wasn’t fair! Suddenly the room filled with a high-pitched tune. The little boy turned back over as he heard someone begin to speak.

_“A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no?”_

It was like someone else was telling him a story. A short story about a little town called Anatevka and how the people there are like fiddlers on a roofs. He is about to ask what a fiddler is when the beat changes to a _bum-bee-bum-bee-bum-bee_ and voices sing out, “ _Tradition! Tradition!_ ”

The song pulls the little boy out of his low spirits, and begins to bounce in his mother’s lap. 

“You like that, kiddo?” his father asks.

“Yes!” Jimmy jumps up and starts frantically jumping and dancing. The story continues, and he is entranced by the way the man on the recording talks. He explains everything so easily. He knows everything about everybody! 

As the music continues, he gets tired of dancing by himself. Why are the grown ups staying still during the happy sons and slow songs? Now the man is singing with another man about life, and Jimmy grabs Chuck’s hand, pulls on him. But eighteen-year-old boys are too heavy and four-year-olds are too small. It’s like pulling on a tree limb, where the branch gives way a bit but does not crack or bend. Jimmy gives up, and starts bouncing up and down. Chuck is unmoved, but he lets the boy hold his hand as he hops and swings around.

Jimmy abandons Chuck and chooses his father as his new dance partner. Willard stands as Jimmy pulls him up—victory!—but the man sways from side-to-side. Good-natured and shy, a flame doesn’t ignite the dynamite’s wick.

 _Ka-boom!_ His mother swoops in from behind and lifts Jimmy up. Chuck and Willard laugh as Jimmy shrieks in glee as he’s spun around and around. When he lands, he stumbles and the room tilts and swirls. He giggles, doesn’t stop dancing for a moment. Ruth and her son dance as Chuck and Willard clap to the beat. Jimmy explodes in movement, and she copies him.

The men of Anatevka sing:

_“To us and our good fortune  
Be happy be healthy long life  
And if our good fortune never comes  
Here’s to whatever comes  
Drink, l’chaim, to life!”_

* * *

**December 24th, 1972**

As Father Mahoney leads the Midnight Mass, Jimmy’s swallows the acid rising in his throat as his father drops five dollars into the collection basket. Five dollars they don’t have. The basket is passed to Chuck, then to his mother, and it’s in Jimmy’s hands. There are witnesses, so Jimmy has to pass it on like the good Catholic boy his father wants him to be. But his eye stays trained on those wrinkled green singles until it meets the end of the row.

A year ago, Ruth McGill twirled and her shadow danced at a wedding in Anatevka. Jimmy wants to take her back to that time, before her quiet fights with his father lulled him to sleep like a lullaby. Under the tree at home, there is a vinyl record of _Fiddler on the Roof_. The film version—totally different from Chuck’s old version. He’s not copying Chuck. It’s a present that is just for her and him.

He will tell her he saved money from his allowance. It’s not a total lie. He’s doing a good thing for her. And he’s got enough stashed away for himself. Nothing extravagant. Nothing like five dollars donation in a collection basket.

He crosses himself, and pretends to pray. He counts to five, and then he opens one eye and peaks at his family. His father’s lips press tight together, earnest and desperate to connect to an invisible man in the sky. Chuck’s face is relaxed, obedient. His mother, however, is looking right at him.

That’s when Jimmy McGill has an epiphany: just because his mother is bad at math doesn’t mean that she’s stupid. She sees him.

Ruth places her hand over his eyes and gently adjusts his head into a bowing position. “Don’t let anyone see,” she whispers.

* * *

**December 31st, 1998**

“ _When did she get to be a beauty?_  
 _When did he get to be so tall?_  
 _Wasn’t it yesterday when they were small?_ ”

“Jimmy, what are you doing?”

Jimmy jumps, his heart racing as he looks up at Chuck. His older brother examines him, sitting close to their mother’s side as the music of “Sunrise, Sunset” fills the room. Nurse Jane had given him the go ahead to bring in a small CD Player, after he spent a good ten minutes yapping about how his mother loved music. “Doctors said that she can hear us,” Jimmy had said. “Even if that’s not true, I figured she’s sick of our yammering by now. Get some entertainment.”

“Film adaptation?” Chuck asks.

Jimmy nods. Chuck pulls up a chair and sits next to him, watching their mother as she breathed in and out. In and out. Shallow, but steady. It was only a matter of time. They didn’t even get a last Christmas.

“Mom loved this song,” Jimmy explains.

“I remember.”

“I thought I’d play it for her.”

“That’s thoughtful.”

Jimmy smiles, lips pressing tightly together and his shoulders tense. It doesn’t feel thoughtful anymore for some reason. Chuck stares at their mother. She’s so still. Jimmy gnaws at his lip, waits for her to tell him to stop biting at the chapped skin. But she just lays there...

“ _Sunrise, sunset_  
 _Sunrise, sunset_  
 _Swiftly fly the years_  
 _One season following another_  
 _Laden with happiness and tears..._ ”

Chuck’s tone is clipped as he says, “Would you mind turning it off?”

Jimmy tilts his head toward his brother. “It’s almost over, though—”

“I know,” Chuck sighs. “I’m not mad, I just have a headache.”

Jimmy leans forward, not bothering to get out of his chair, his arm stretching and reaching for the small boombox on the side table. _Click!_ The music cuts off and all is silent. Chuck nods his thanks.

“How’s Rebecca?” Jimmy asks.

“Fine.”

No further explanation. There’s nothing much to explain. Rebecca has no reason to come, and yet Chuck McGill still wears his wedding ring as his last tether to hope. 

Chuck’s hand flexes, fingers wiggling and tensing, shakes away some unknown pain. Jimmy thinks maybe it’s some arthritis from the cold or age finally catching up to him. Fluorescent lights hum above them, casting a sharp light on the three of them.

* * *

**December 25th, 2008**

Saul’s stomach feels lighter, and he wipes remnants of vomit away from his mouth. The bathroom tile is hard on his knees, but laying in the fetal position, his cheek presses against the tiny squares that will leave imprints on his face. It’s worth it. The chill of the floor radiates and battles the heat buried in his skin. It grounds him, stops the room from spinning as much.

He’s getting a phone call in a few hours. Not Saul Goodman. No, Jimmy McGill is.

He brings his wrist up to his face, watches the minute hand shutter from 11:59pm to 12:00am. The jolting motion turns his stomach and he shoves his hand away.

Christmas Day. Not much of a Christmas. When was the last time he received a Christmas present? A birthday present? Should he tell her that he bought Jesse Pinkman a gun just in case his ex-partner got a taste for blood? On the one hand, he promised to tell her the truth. On the other hand...

“Nah,” he says to no one, his speech slurring. “It’s not fair because she can’t get presents. Pinkman, don’t tell the wife that you got presents! Shh!”

Phone calls for Jimmy McGill are only incoming. Never outgoing. No, no, no, Saul Goodman is allowed to have more fun, more freedom, more phone calls. Jimmy McGill isn’t even allowed to know the number of the precious few calls he receives. God knows he’s tried. _Secrets, shh._ Last one was his annual birthday call. November 12, 2008, 3pm, celebrating 48 candles on the proverbial cake.

In just a few hours, Saul would let Jimmy out for Christmas. He imagines what he would say if he continued to play the part when he got the call. _Merry Christmas, baby! Who’s got two thumbs and is trapped in a psychopath’s drug kingpin fantasy? This guy!_

He didn’t have the time to pause the movie. It still plays, and there is an odd disconnect between joyous singing and emptying your stomach into the toilet. 

Hodel says, “ _I think you’re asking me to marry you._ ”

“ _Well_ ,” Perchik stutters, “ _in a theoretical sense... yes, I am._ ”

There’s no world where he hears these lines and doesn’t think about her.

_Blue eyes brimming with tears stare up at him. “Maybe we get married?”_

_“It’s a legal arrangement,” he explains to Huell._

_She asks him about his day, and he pretends to ponder for a moment. Then he flips his hair back with a twist of his head, and he smiles. “I got married!”_

Jimmy McGill lies on the bathroom floor, shoving his hand over his eyes. A makeshift dam that is useless against the sobs and the flood of tears that rack his body. 

* * *

**December 25th, 2014**

Gene doesn’t bother wiping away the stray tears as Tevye and his family trudge through snow and sludge, forced from their homes. He’s too busy. Lost in his own icy memories. He can still feel his girl—his wife—pressing against him with her head on her shoulder. Her hair tickles Jimmy’s cheek as he leans his head against the top of hers. _“This is pretty good,” Kim admits. “Sadder than I expected it to be.”_

The fiddler plays. Tevye gestures for him to follow him. Follow me into the unknown, he asks silently. Keep me company in an unfamiliar place with memories of home and traditions that keep me.

Gene didn’t have to pull a cart of his belongings to a ship that would take him far from home. No family or kin to bring with him. He didn’t even get to watch the desert recede from view as an old man shipped him away in a windowless van that rocked him into a restless sleep. Just enough memories to fit inside the confines of a shoebox.

The end credits roll. The DVD menu pops up. Gene hits play again.

_“A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no?”_

Gene leans back. There’s still liquid in his mug, but it’s three hours colder. He runs his thumb over the small chip at the base, traces the outline of a barely-there movie shark.

“ _You may ask 'Why do we stay up there if it's so dangerous?' Well, we stay because Anatevka is our home._ ”

Ah, that’s the thing: Gene has already lost balance. He’s slipped one too many times, from Cicero to Albuquerque to Omaha. And now he’s stuck in mid-fall. He just doesn’t know when he’s going to land or the damage he’s going to leave behind. No one is going to catch him. There’s no one left.

Tevye climbs into his cart, unaware that his life is going to be flipped upside down over and over and over again.

“ _And how do we keep our balance?_ ” Tevye asks. “ _That I can tell you in one word..._ ”

Gene mouths it with him again: “ _Tradition_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this Christmas fic published at the tail-end of summer. 🤣


End file.
